Giving In
by WhoopsTooManyFeels
Summary: John's body shivers and convulses with sobs as he sends another text. Please Sherlock. For me. Please come home.-JW John can't handle this any more. Believing that Sherlock is alive when all evidence suggests the opposite. John slams another shot of whiskey and grabs a purple cell from his pants pocket. I'll do it. I'm in –JW (could be rated M in later chapters)
1. Chapter 1

The bright light from the screen illuminates the dank abandoned building. Another text from him. Another plea to be alive, to come home. The shadow of a once powerful man walks to the broken window, wishing more than anything to return to the bustling streets and the scent of freshly made tea. To return home.

John ties his brown shoes as he prepares himself for the endless mundane life he set for himself. Wake up, get dressed, listen to patients and prescribe meds, shower, eat, and go to bed. He was a shell of who he once was, barely talking to friends, ignoring Lestrade and Molly completely, even poor Mrs. Hudson. He just didn't want to deal with their pity. The sideways glances and false smiles. He couldn't handle it.

After the fifth patient to cough directly into John's face leaves, he almost prays for a fire to start or a murder to happen to end his suffering. He shakes his head to rid himself of painful memories of chasing murders through alleyways with a certain dark figure. As he enters the room and reads the patient form, he doesn't pay attention to the young woman eyeing him up and down.  
"So you've come in today because of stomach pains Ms…?"  
" No"  
"I'm sorry?" John looks up from the page with a furrowed brow.  
The dark haired girl crosses her leg. "I came to see you"  
"Well uh..." John looks down and scratches his head. He has to admit that she isn't bad looking. Quite a looker really. But clearly way too young, hell she could even be half his age!  
"I'm flattered, I really am, but I'm really not loo-"  
"Not like that" She rolls her eyes and huffs. "I wanted to talk with you without that government official taking interest. This, of course, was the easiest way."  
John instantly sits up straight, eyeing his potential enemy as his army training comes in to action.  
"Who are you and what do you want."

Sherlock flops down on the deteriorating couch, his skinny frame barely making an impact. He sighs and brushes the too long curls from his face, glancing once again at his phone. Every single day he receives texts from John. Some cursing and yelling at him for who he is and what he did. Others, begging and pleading enough that Sherlock has to turn off the phone and resist the urge to throw it against a wall. Sherlock can picture John, his John, bent over a glass of whiskey, tears flooding down his cheeks like rivers as his body shivers and convulses with sobs as he sends hopeless texts. Sherlock does his best to drown those thoughts out with his work, just as he always has.  
He checks the phone and tilts his head slightly. No new texts from John yet. Odd. Sherlock walks over to his thinking wall, covered in photos, newspaper clippings, scribbled notes, all edited in red with Sherlock's notes. At the very center is a portrait of James Moriarty. It's been 29 months, 13 days and 7 hours of work, and yet the web still stands.

It's another hour of work before Sherlock notices his phone flashing. A new text from John.  
- You really aren't there are you. You haven't read any of these. You really are…dead… -JW  
Sherlock tosses the phone to the couch, biting his lip to keep his composure. John wasn't supposed to give in. It's not like him. Sherlock sinks to the floor and pulls his legs in, using all of his concentration to not start crying. But even he can't stop the tidal wave of emotions breaking through. He silently sobs and shakes, his heart breaking at the knowledge that John Watson, the only one to see him as a person, who believed in him, has finally given up. The cold wind flows through the old house and Sherlock welcomes it, feeling as though he has no right to warmth anymore. What's the point?

John stands in Hyde Park next to the bench he and Sherlock last sat at. He sends a text and stares at the sky for a moment before pulling out a small container and swallows the two round pills. Tears gently roll down his cheek before he falls and the world fades to black.  
- Is this what it felt like? Before the end? The world seems so full… of everything... Except you. And I'm sorry Sherlock, but I can't handle that anymore. I can't….. I'll see you soon. –JW

Sherlock almost drops the phone as his brain stops functioning. It's only moments later that he realizes his phone is buzzing from a call from Mycroft.  
"I'm sorry Sherlock….. I failed you."  
Sherlock throws the phone as hard as he can, not caring where it ends up. His hands hold his head, trying to contain the thoughts trying to burst through his skull. Why? No. It's not… It's not true. No. no no no no no no no no. Sherlock falls to the ground in a heap, trying his best to keep his lungs under control. Calm down Sherlock. You need to regulate your breathing to prevent yourself from hyperventilating. It takes him 2 hours before he can pick himself up and get his phone, dialing his brother.  
" Get me a plane."

It takes Molly and Lestrade several moments to gather themselves as a freshly cleaned and_ alive _Sherlock bursts through the doors of .  
"Sher…" Molly stares, not able to form solid words  
"You bastard!" Before Sherlock could open his mouth, a hard fist hits him square in the jaw, sending him stumbling to the side.  
"I…suppose I deserve that." Sherlock stands straight and rubs his cheek lightly before another hand slaps him hard in the same spot.  
Molly stands in front of him with puffy eyes from crying, her lower lip quivering.  
"Really Molly?" Sherlock presses his now red cheek. "You were the one who came up with how I was to-"  
"You idiot!" Molly yells as the tears start to flow again.  
Lestrade puts his hand on her shoulder and glares at Sherlock.  
"This… is your fault."  
Sherlock stands taller; he should've known they'd be upset about John. The fact that Sherlock is alive simply makes things worse. For Lestrade at least. But they were right; this is completely Sherlock's fault. All of it. He should have had Mycroft monitor John better. But it's too late now.  
"Let me see him."

Sherlock walks up to the body on the gurney, the white sheet covering the one thing he never wanted to see. He pauses a moment to ground himself before pulling the sheet back. Sherlock stands as his eyes trail the corpse in front of him, lingering on his face and then the scar on his shoulder.  
"Did he have anything on him?"  
Molly looks up and blinks before going and getting John's Ziploc bag of his effects.  
Sherlock hastily goes through his clothes, checking everything.  
"What are you looking for?" She asks quietly as she grabs another tissue for her eyes.  
"This" Sherlock grabs a crumpled piece of paper in the bottom of the bag.  
"Oh…." Molly looks down. "It's an awful note. He must have… written it before…" Molly chokes on her words and holds the tissue firmer.  
In the note, John outlines everything he hates about Sherlock, every time he ever played violin too loudly, every body part in the fridge, every experiment, every case that went sour and the many fights they had over the years. Claiming Sherlock was a machine and a freak, and how he wished he'd never met the detective.  
Sherlock pockets the note and quickly heads out the door of the morgue, ignoring Lestrade and Molly's questions of where he was heading.  
He was going to find John.  
Alive.


	2. Chapter 2

John takes another sip of his coffee as he glances at the red clock behind the barista's head. 12:46, what was he even doing? He's been waiting for almost an hour with no news from her, no responses to texts or even a heads up that she'll be late. It was obviously just a prank to make John look desperate. Before John could get up to leave, a blue backpack thuds on the table and the green eyed girl from before tumbles into the chair opposite him. She grumbles a greeting and grabs John's coffee, gulping the rest of it down.

"You're late." John crosses his arms and glares at the dishevelled girl.  
"Class went late." She puts John's empty cup down and licks her lips.  
"Look Lucy, I'm not here to play games." He leans forward. "For some moronic reason I'm deciding to trust you. So you better start taking this seriously."  
She leans back and glares at John, her almost electric green eyes rendering John captive.  
"I can't stop my class from going late, so remind me again how I'm suddenly not serious about this? Don't forget that I'm the one coming up with this plan."  
John scratches his brow and sighs. Why does everyone he meets seem to have a stick up their arse?  
"Fine. Then let's get this sorted out shall we?" John pulls out the purple cell he received at the clinic.  
"Why did you insist I only text you with this? We can easily just swap numbers."  
Lucy opens her bag and pulls out a tablet.  
"Someone's got it bugged. It records your calls and texts and sends them to a number located somewhere near parliament."  
Bloody hell. That bastard. Even with Sherlock gone, there's always a Holmes getting in under his skin.  
"And how exactly does a college student know that?" John is smart. Well, not Sherlock level, but he knows not to trust people who know more than they should. Even if he _is_ desperate.  
"I have my sources."  
She continues typing and swiping away on the tablet, barely paying John any attention.  
John sighs and stands to buy another black coffee. He has a good idea he'll need the caffeine for the headache he's about to get. When he sits down at the small table, Lucy passes the tablet to him.  
"This is the plan so far."

Sherlock hails a cab and directs him to Halliford St. Sherlock taps his foot, scowling at the passing pedestrians. He should've known better. Damn sentiment. He grips the fake note, crumbling it into a small ball. It's a code system he and John had created for a case where their phones were being monitored by a drug lord.  
"Come to Halliford St if convenient. If inconvenient come anyway." He should have known John could get caught up in something like this.  
It was obvious the corpse was a fake. Makeup and prosthetics were used to create the scar and John's face. They even managed to get prosthetics for John's fingerprints. Very detailed work, and would require John's full cooperation to make properly. Either a) John was being held at gunpoint, b) John was being blackmailed, or c) John was cooperating willingly. Sherlock sighs impatiently and watches the city go by. He missed this city, the buildings, the streets, the smell, all of it. Sherlock glances at the crumpled piece of paper in his hand, a fire burning through his core as he squeezes it till he almost draws blood.

"You're going to do _what_?" John stands in the bright sitting room, staring at the two people he now believed to be crazy.  
"We're going to inject your blood into a male corpse of your weight and height and then use prosthetics and make-up to distract the specialist long enough to get Sherlock here." Lucy scratches the back of her head idly before continuing her texting.  
"Really mate, I don't think it's that bad. He's already dead."  
John points his finger at the blonde man sitting by the computer. "You of all people don't get to talk to me about morals."  
Lucy sighs. "What would you suggest Doctor? A wax figure? For you to actually die? How about we just clone you hmm?"  
"No…I…Bloody hell I don't know." John sits in the recliner and puts his head in his hands. "It's just…"  
"I know."  
John looks up as Lucy pats his shoulder. "This is the easiest way I can currently think of."  
John watches as the small girl walks back to her tablet, organising some plan of hers.  
John looks her over, trying to find any clues as to who she really is. Red converse, breaking at the corners and slightly too big; second hand, low on income. Short nails, indication of ripping; she gets bored easily, like to keep her hands active, kinetic learner. Smart, low on income, stays inside on a screen most likely, what with her prescription contacts, pale skin, and constantly being on her tablet. John was no Sherlock, but he had absorbed some small idea of how to profile. Not very darn good for figuring out her interest in Sherlock.  
"Ask." She mumbles as she types.  
"I'm sorry?"  
"You're staring. I'm guessing you have a question but don't feel it's important enough yet. Just ask."  
John rolls his eyes. "What's your goal in all this? Why are you interested?"  
Lucy pauses and looks up at John.  
"Sherlock saved my aunt's life. Her plumber killed her husband and was planning to steal the family heirlooms, but she walked in. He had her cornered before Sherlock burst in and hit him over the head with a vase."  
John raises his eyebrows slightly. "Mrs….. McClure wasn't it? With the bright red hair?"  
Lucy nods and goes back to her work. "I never believed he was a fake. So when the news of his death came up and unravelled his cases, I couldn't believe it. Took me this long to figure that he's most likely alive somewhere."  
The corner of John's mouth twitches into a smile before he stands up to go over the plan with Lucy and Aaron.

Sherlock turns his phone on and brings up the video files he requested from his brother before landing. Every CCTV camera pointed anywhere near Hyde Park on that day. Sherlock fast forwards through John's stroll of the park and slows down just before John swallows the pills. Interesting. Sherlock zooms in on John's hand; there it is, a faint line around his index finger. John never wore rings, he hated them. Sherlock zooms out and watches as John walks to the bench from the restroom. Sherlock zooms once more and finds another anomaly; a slight change in colour from John's nose to his cheek. Sherlock squints and frowns. Prosthetics.

John sighs and tries to flip the page in his book, only to have it fall to the ground. Curses. Now he had nothing to do as the cast on his arm dries. Third arm prosthetic today, three facial ones yesterday. John calls Lucy and tries to get her attention, but she's fixated on the clay she's molding to look exactly like John's face. After the third call, she finally glances up.  
"Sorry?"  
"Can you get my book please? I dropped it."  
She sighs and sulks over to the chair John's been stuck in all afternoon, and places the book on the table before practically skipping back to her work.  
"Pills?" She asks as she sits and picks up some more clay.  
John looks up. "Uhh, not yet. I haven't had a chance to grab them without anyone around."  
He hates the idea of stealing from the clinic, but John's too far into this mess to give up now.  
"Tomorrow you should go back to Aaron's condo and practice."  
John sighs and starts mentally bracing himself for the onslaught of questions he was going to have to answer the next day. It was bad enough having Sherlock memorize all his habits and mannerisms, but someone who was trying to literally _be_ you? It took all of John's control not to toss him out the window during their sessions.  
John sighs and flips back to his spot in his book, wondering if he was really doing the right thing.

The cab pulls up to the apartment building and Sherlock pays the driver before sprinting out. He analyzes the street and buildings, looking for prime sniper outlooks and escape routes. Sherlock hears a click and turns around sharply.  
"Oi, in here mate" A blonde man wearing jeans and a grey T-shirt calls from across the street, waving Sherlock to come over.  
Sherlock furrows his brow and crosses the street, glaring at the man before pushing into the building.  
"Just up these stairs and to the right."  
Sherlock braces himself for the ambush before opening the door, turning slightly so his shoulder enters first, in case any shots or punches come at him once the door opens. He's going to get John out of there, if it's the last thing he does.

Showtime John. Good luck dying ;) –L. John takes a long breath to soothe his nerves before he chucks the phone on his bed. This is it. The day they'd been planning for two months. John puts on one of his many beige jumpers and a pair of dark jeans, looking in the mirror a second longer than usual, remembering that he may never get these clothes back. He gulps unconsciously before opening the door and heading down the stairs. What on earth was he doing? He holds his stomach as the butterflies of anxiety almost make him lose his breakfast. Again. He almost gets out of the flat before he hears a door close.  
"Oh, John!"  
John grimaces before turning around. "Hello Mrs. Hudson." He nods and smiles.  
"Going out for a walk are we?" She comes up and pats John's arm. "I'll make you some tea when you come back."  
"Umm. Thank you. I'll see you later then." John nods and tries his best to smile before quickly escaping the flat.  
He almost forgot about Mrs. Hudson. She may never forgive him after the word gets out. John sighs and walks with his eyes tracing the pavement, feeling guiltier with every step. He slowly walks around the park, jumping to the side before a group of kids can bump into him. John glances at the restroom and what he's doing finally registers; he's going to fake his own death. John slows his breathing and sits on a bench. He really is no better than Sherlock, hell John's probably worse. But he can't walk away. Not now. If there is even the smallest chance that Sherlock is alive and out there somewhere, then this is worth it. If by doing this, John can see that idiotically brilliant man again, then he'll do it. What does he have left to lose after all?


End file.
